My brain was fuzzy and I couldn’t comprehend anything.

Someone screamed, oh hey, it was me. Awkward. The protection around the burrow had been broken and people were disaparating. Cloaked and masked figures were appearing.

“George!” I screamed, I couldn’t see him.

“Go.” His voice shouted back.

 I had to find Ron and Hermione and Harry. We had to escape.

“Ron!” Hermione cried. “Ron, where are you?”

“Willow!” Harry was shouting.

I threw myself towards him.

And then Ron was there.  I caught hold of Hermione’s free arm, and I felt her turn on the spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon me; all I could feel was Hermione’s hand as I was squeezed through space.

“Where are we?” said Ron’s voice.

“Tottenham Court Road,” panted Hermione. “Walk, just walk, we need to find somewhere for you to change.”

I did as she asked. We half walked, half ran up the wide dark street thronged with late-night revellers and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling above them. A double-decker bus rumbled by and a group of merry pub-goers ogled them as they passed; Harry and Ron were still wearing dress robes. Hermione and I in our dresses.

“Hermione, we haven’t got anything to change into,” Ron told her, as a young woman burst into raucous giggles at the sight of him.

“Why didn’t I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?” said Harry, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. “All last year I kept it on me and—“

“It’s okay, I’ve got the Cloak, I’ve got clothes for the two of you,” said Hermione, “Just try and act naturally until—this will do.”

She led us down a side street, then into the shelter of a shadowy alleyway.

“When you say you’ve got the cloak and clothes...” said Harry, frowning at Hermione, who was carrying nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which she was now rummaging.

“Yes, they’re here,” said Hermione, and to our utter astonishment, she pulled out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and the invisibility cloak.

“How the ruddy hell—?”

“Undetectable Extension Charm,” said Hermione. “Tricky, but I think I’ve done it okay; anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here.” She gave the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around inside it. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books,” she said, peering into it, “and I had them all stacked by subject. . . . Oh well. . . . Harry, you’d better take the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and changed . . .”

“When did you do all this?” Harry asked as Ron stripped.

Sexy.

“I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here. . . . I just had a feeling. . . .”

“You’re amazing, you are,” said Ron, handing her his bundled up robes as I threw my dress and heels at her.

So I have to stay in this stupid dress?

I magicked my dress into tights and an oversized jumper and some bright blue converse.

I’m hawt.

“Willow,” Hermione sighed at me.

Harry threw his Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders and pulled it up over his head, vanishing from sight.

“The others—everybody at the wedding—“

“We can’t worry about that now,” whispered Hermione. “It’s you they’re after, Harry, and we’ll just put everyone in even more danger by going back.”

“She’s right,” said Ron, who seemed to know that Harry was about to argue, even if he could not see his face. “Most of the Order was there, they’ll look after everyone.”

Harry sounded like he nodded and said, “Yeah.”

“Come on, I think we ought to keep moving,” said Hermione, but my thoughts were on George.

We moved back up the side street and onto the main road again, where a group of men on the opposite side was singing and weaving across the pavement.

“Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court Road?”

Ron asked Hermione.

“I’ve no idea, it just popped into my head, but I’m sure we’re safer out in the Muggle world, it’s not where they’ll expect us to be.”

“True,” said Ron, looking around, “but don’t you feel a bit— exposed?”

“Where else is there?” asked Hermione, cringing as the men on the other side of the road started wolf-whistling at her. “We can hardly book rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld Place is out if Snape can get in there. . . . I suppose we could try my parents’ home, though I think there’s a chance they might check there. . . . Oh, I wish they’d shut up!”

“All right, darling?” the drunkest of the men on the other pavement was yelling. “Fancy a drink? Ditch ginger and come and have a pint!”

“Fuck off!” I shouted, because I’m the classiest bitch out.
“Let’s sit down somewhere,” Hermione said hastily. “Look, this will do, in here!”

It was a small and shabby all-night cafe. A light layer of grease lay on all the Formica-topped tables, but it was at least empty.

Harry slipped into a booth first and Ron sat next to him opposite Hermione, who had her back to the entrance and did not like it. I sat on the floor.

After a minute or two, Ron said, “You know, we’re not far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it’s only in Charing Cross—“

“Ron, we can’t!” said Hermione at once.

“Not to stay there, but to find out what’s going on!”

“We know what’s going on! Voldemort’s taken over the Ministry, what else do we need to know?”

“Okay, okay, it was just an idea!”

The gum-chewing waitress shuffled over and Hermione ordered three cappuccinos: As Harry was invisible it would have looked odd to order him one. A pair of burly workmen entered the cafe and squeezed into the next booth. I wouldn’t have mentioned them except they were sus.

Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper.

“I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once we’re there, we could send a message to the Order.”

“Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?” asked Ron.

“I’ve been practicing and I think so,” said Hermione.

“Well, as long as it doesn’t get them into trouble, though they might’ve been arrested already. God, that’s revolting,” Ron added after one sip of the foamy, grayish coffee. The waitress had heard; she shot Ron a nasty look as she shuffled off to take the new customers’ orders.  They didn’t want anything, so I continued to stare at them.

“Let’s get going, then, I don’t want to drink this muck,” said Ron. “Hermione, have you got Muggle money to pay for this?”

“Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before I came to the Burrow. I’ll bet all the change is at the bottom,” sighed Hermione, reaching for her beaded bag.

I looked at the workmen and they looked familiar.

So I withdrew my wand.

Apparently they had too.

“STUPIFY!” Harry and I shouted at the same time.

Then his ‘friend’ shot one at Ron, but Ron had dived out of the way, and tackled Hermione.

I laughed, due to my lack of maturity.

The great blond Death Eater was hit in the face by a jet or two of red light: He slumped sideways, unconscious. His cohort, unable to see who had cast the spell, fired another at Ron: Shining black ropes flew from his wand-tip and bound Ron head to foot— the waitress screamed and ran for the door—Harry sent another Stunning Spell at the Death Eater with the twisted face who had tied up Ron, but the spell missed, rebounded on the window, and hit the waitress, who collapsed in front of the door.

“Expulso!” bellowed the Death Eater, and a table blew up.

“Petrificus Totalus!” screamed Hermione from out of sight, and the Death Eater fell forward like a statue to land with a crunching thud on the mess of broken china, table, and coffee. Hermione crawled out from underneath the bench, shaking bits of glass ashtray out of her hair and trembling all over.

“D–diffindo,” she said, pointing her wand at Ron, who roared in pain as she slashed open the knee of his jeans, leaving a deep cut. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ron, my hand’s shaking! Diffindo!”

The severed ropes fell away. Ron got to his feet, shaking his arms to regain feeling in them. Harry picked up his wand and climbed over all the debris to where the large blond Death Eater was sprawled across the bench.

“I should’ve recognized him, he was there the night Dumbledore died,” he said. He turned over the darker Death Eater with his foot; the man’s eyes moved rapidly between us.

“That’s Dolohov,” said Ron. “I recognize him from the old wanted posters. I think the big one’s Thorfinn Rowle.”

“Never mind what they’re called!” said Hermione a little hysterically. “How did they find us? What are we going to do?”

“Lock the door,” he told her, “and Ron, turn out the lights.”

Ron used the Deluminator to plunge the cafe into darkness.

“Fuck.” I said, a little afraid. “I must still have the trace. I shouldn’t have changed. Fuck.”

“It’s okay, Willow.” Hermione whispered soothingly, but I collapsed on the floor anyway.

“What are we going to do with them?” Ron whispered to Harry through the dark; then, even more quietly, “Kill them? They’d kill us. They had a good go just now.”

Hermione shuddered and took a step backward. Harry shook his head.

“We could wipe their memories,” I suggested rolling over on the floor.

“It’s better like that, it’ll throw them off the scent. If we killed them it’d be obvious we were here.” Harry said in agreement.

“You’re the boss,” said Ron, sounding profoundly relieved. “But I’ve never down a Memory Charm.”

“Nor have I,” said Hermione, “but I know the theory.”

She took a deep, calming breath, then pointed her wand at Dolohov’s forehead and said, “Obliviate.”

At once, Dolohov’s eyes became unfocused and dreamy.

“Brilliant!” said Harry, clapping her on the back. “Take care of the other one and the waitress while Ron and I clear up.”

“Clear up?” said Ron, looking around at the partly destroyed cafe. “Why?”

“Don’t you think they might wonder what’s happened if they wake up and find themselves in a place that looks like it’s just been bombed?”

“Oh right, yeah . . . ”

Ron struggled for a moment before managing to extract his wand from his pocket.

“It’s no wonder I can’t get it out, Hermione, you packed my old jeans, they’re tight.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” hissed Hermione, and as she dragged the waitress out of sight of the windows, I heard her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron could stick his wand instead.

“That would hurt though,” I said, a little revolted and a little impressed. “Unless he’s into that kind of thing.”

“Shut up.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

Once the cafe was restored to its previous condition, we heaved the Death Eaters back into their booth and propped them up facing each other.

“But how did they find us?” Hermione asked, looking from one inert man to the other. “How did they know where we were?”

She turned to Harry.

“It’s gotta be me doesn’t it?” I said from my floor. The three of them looked at me. “I’m the one under seventeen. I’ve still got the Trace then, don’t I?”

“No,” Harry said defensively. “Otherwise they would have followed you into the Burrow.”

“They did.” I said. “Two days later.”

Hermione was crying, because I think that’s what she does in a crisis; Harry looked as though he might puke; but Ron was looking thoughtful.

“We need a safe place to hide,” said Ron. “Give us time to think things through.”

“Grimmauld Place,” said Harry.

Ron and Hermione gaped. I was just still feeling sick.

“Don’t be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!”

“Ron’s dad said they’ve put up jinxes against him—and even if they haven’t worked,” he pressed on as Hermione began to argue. “So what? I swear, I’d like nothing better than to meet Snape!”

“But—“

“Hermione, where else is there? It’s the best chance we’ve got. Snape’s only one Death Eater. If Wil’s still got the Trace on her.  We’ll have whole crowds of them on us wherever else we go.”

She could not argue, though she looked as if she would have liked to. While she unlocked the cafe door, Ron clicked the Deluminator to release the cafe’s light. Then, on Harry’s count of three, they reversed the spells upon their three victims, and before the waitress or either of the Death Eaters could do more than stir sleepily, Harry, Ron and Hermione had turned on the spot and vanished into the compressing darkness once more.

“Oh, I should do that too.” I said, and apparated.

Seconds later I was standing in the middle of a familiar small and shabby square. Tall, dilapidated houses looked down on them from every side. Number twelve was visible to us, for we had been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its Secret-Keeper, and we rushed toward it, checking every few yards that we were not being followed or observed. We raced up the stone steps, and Harry tapped the front door once with his wand. We heard a series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the door swung open with a creak and we hurried over the threshold.

I was imagining myself back at the burrow a few moments before, and dancing with George, and being with George. Everything was better when I was with George.

Anything is better with George.

Like honestly, you add his name to any word or sentence and it sounds better.

George shit.

I have a big George rhinoceros.

I want to sleep George.

There was a word I skipped then, despite how tempting it was to add it.

I don’t even know what the George I’m thinking anymore.

Oh em gee. New Swear Word = George.

I tuned back in and Dumbledore was flying towards us.

Whatevs.

I was just standing there, nonchalant, as Harry shouted, “No! No! It wasn’t us! We didn’t kill you—“

On the word kill, the figure exploded in a great cloud of dust.

I tuned out again because I was so Georging bored.

Haha.

The other three’s arguing was all white noise as I thought about George.

A silver patronus landed upon the floor in front of us, where it solidified into the weasel that spoke with the voice of Ron’s father. “Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched.”

George is safe.

Okay, now I need to stop thinking about him or my life is going to fail.

The Patronus dissolved into nothingness. Ron let out a noise between a whimper and a groan and dropped onto the sofa: Hermione joined him, gripping his arm. “They’re all right, they’re all right!” she whispered, and Ron half laughed and hugged her.

“Harry,” he said over Hermione’s shoulder, “I—“

“It’s not a problem,” said Harry. “It’s your family, ’course you were worried. I’d feel the same way. I do feel the same way.”

“I don’t want to be on my own. Could we use the sleeping bags I’ve brought and camp in here tonight?”

“Bathroom,” Harry said and he left.

I sat on the ground and hugged my knees.

I’m here with two best friends and my brother and I feel awkward and out of place.

I DON’T BELONG.

THERE IS LACK OF BELONGING.

I’M OSTRACIZED.

I miss George.

I feel homesick, but I don’t even have a home, so go figure that one out.

My rollercoaster had stopped going up, and taken a sharp turn in the opposite direction, before plummeting, down, down, down, into the darkness.

That night I fell asleep how you fall in love, slowly, and then all at once.

---

Okies, here’s something to entertain you, because I won’t be uploading for the next two or more weeks because of assignments and exams and shit: Try to put the word “George” into ONE random sentence like Willow/I was doing earlier.

The funniest person will get a mention or something idk

Go read John Green novels while I’m gone to make yourselves cry and realise you have no talent.

Love you.